Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul 2: More Stories to Open the Hearts and Rekindle the Spirits of Mothers

Summary

This poignant collection of stories for and about the most important woman in our lives features chapters on Love, Becoming a Mother, Mothers and daughters, Miracles, Special Moments, Letting Go and more.

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Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul 2 - Jack Canfield

What People Are Saying About

Chicken Soup for the

Mother’s Soul 2 . . .

"Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul 2 has reminded me that the privilege of being my children’s mother is the greatest role I will ever play. And the whispers of love transcribed on their hearts are the most important words I will author."

Lisa Whelchel

actress, Blair on The Facts of Life

author, Creative Correction: Extraordinary Ideas for Everyday

Discipline

One of the most crucial needs in the career of motherhood is inspiration. This book is a great resource for exactly that!

Linda Eyre

author, A Joyful Mother of Children:

The Magic & Mayhem of Motherhood

This book is an inspirational read for moms trying to juggle their multiple roles. Its heartwarming stories offer a peaceful respite in our busy lives and celebrate the special spirit of motherhood.

Ellen H. Parlapiano and Patricia Cobe

authors, Mompreneurs®: A Mother’s Practical Step-by-Step Guide

to Work-at-Home Success

What a gift for all mothers! You’ll love the stories of mothers’ wisdom, miracles, precious moments and the power of a mother’s love.

Bobbi McCaughey

mother of the McCaughey septuplets author,

Seven from Heaven: The Miracle of the McCaughey Septuplets

"Reading Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul 2 reminds us all of the depth and power of the precious bond between mother and child and uplifts the role of motherhood toward the divine."

Jeanette Lisefski

founder, National Association of

At-Home Mothers and AtHomeMothers.com

"Every ordinary mom has extraordinary stories to tell. By assembling such stories, Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul 2, like its predecessor, provides an invaluable service—honoring and celebrating motherhood."

Lynda DeWitt

director of content, Mom.com, Inc.

"The love a mother has for her child is unbounded. Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul 2 contains precious stories of inspiration and truth that capture the essence of motherhood. Each story touched me deeply, as it reflected these universal laws of unconditional love."

Laura L. Bordow

elementary school director and mother

"Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul 2 reminds us that not only are our children gifts from God to love and cherish, but so also are our mothers!"

Peggy Dunn

mayor of Leawood, Kansas

"As a mom, I say ‘Thank you!’ Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul 2 is a reaffirmation that being a mom is the most important and fulfilling job in the world."

Glo Goodwin

radio personality

CHICKEN SOUP

FOR THE

MOTHER’S SOUL 2

More Stories to

Open the Hearts and Rekindle

the Spirits of Mothers

Jack Canfield

Mark Victor Hansen

Marci Shimoff

Carol Kline

Backlist, LLC, a unit of

Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC

Cos Cob, CT

www.chickensoup.com

Enough with the Chicken Soup for the Soul. How about some pizza for the son?

We also wish to acknowledge the hundreds of people who sent us stories, poems and quotes for possible inclusion in Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul 2. While we were not able to use everything you sent in, we were deeply touched by your heartfelt intention to share yourselves and your stories with us and with our readers. Many of these may be used in future volumes of Chicken Soup for the Soul. Thank you!

Because of the size of this project, we may have left out the names of some people who helped us along the way. If so, we are sorry—please know that we really do appreciate all of you very deeply.

We are truly grateful for the many hands and hearts that have made this book possible. We love you all!

1

ON LOVE

When Mother Teresa received her Nobel Prize, she was asked, What can we do to promote world peace? She replied, Go home and love your family.

Reprinted by permission of Mike Shapiro.

The Call at Midnight

One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don’t come home at night.

Margaret Mead

We all know what’s it like to get that phone call in the middle of the night. This night’s call was no different. Jerking up to the ringing summons, I focused on the red illuminated numbers of my clock. Midnight. Panicky thoughts filled my sleep-dazed mind as I grabbed the receiver.

Hello?

My heart pounded, I gripped the phone tighter and eyed my husband, who was now turning to face my side of the bed.

Mama? I could hardly hear the whisper over the static. But my thoughts immediately went to my daughter. When the desperate sound of a young crying voice became clearer on the line, I grabbed for my husband and squeezed his wrist.

Mama, I know it’s late. But don’t . . . don’t say anything, until I finish. And before you ask, yes, I’ve been drinking. I nearly ran off the road a few miles back and. . . .

I drew in a sharp shallow breath, released my husband and pressed my hand against my forehead. Sleep still fogged my mind, and I attempted to fight back the panic. Something wasn’t right.

And I got so scared. All I could think about was how it would hurt you if a policeman came to your door and said I’d been killed. I want . . . to come home. I know running away was wrong. I know you’ve been worried sick. I should have called you days ago, but I was afraid . . . afraid. . . .

Sobs of deep-felt emotion flowed from the receiver and poured into my heart. Immediately I pictured my daughter’s face in my mind and my fogged senses seemed to clear. I think—

No! Please let me finish! Please! She pleaded, not so much in anger, but in desperation.

I paused and tried to think what to say. Before I could go on, she continued. I’m pregnant, Mama. I know I shouldn’t be drinking now . . . especially now, but I’m scared, Mama. So scared!

The voice broke again, and I bit into my lip, feeling my own eyes fill with moisture. I looked at my husband who sat silently mouthing, Who is it?

I shook my head and when I didn’t answer, he jumped up and left the room, returning seconds later with the portable phone held to his ear.

She must have heard the click in the line because she continued, Are you still there? Please don’t hang up on me! I need you. I feel so alone.

I clutched the phone and stared at my husband, seeking guidance. I’m here, I wouldn’t hang up, I said.

I should have told you, Mama. I know I should have told you. But when we talk, you just keep telling me what I should do. You read all those pamphlets on how to talk about sex and all, but all you do is talk. You don’t listen to me. You never let me tell you how I feel. It is as if my feelings aren’t important. Because you’re my mother you think you have all the answers. But sometimes I don’t need answers. I just want someone to listen.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared at the how-to-talk-to-your-kids pamphlets scattered on my nightstand. I’m listening, I whispered.

You know, back there on the road, after I got the car under control, I started thinking about the baby and taking care of it. Then I saw this phone booth, and it was as if I could hear you preaching about how people shouldn’t drink and drive. So I called a taxi. I want to come home.

That’s good, Honey, I said, relief filling my chest. My husband came closer, sat down beside me and laced his fingers through mine. I knew from his touch that he thought I was doing and saying the right thing.

But you know, I think I can drive now.

No! I snapped. My muscles stiffened, and I tightened the clasp on my husband’s hand. Please, wait for the taxi. Don’t hang up on me until the taxi gets there.

I just want to come home, Mama.

I know. But do this for your mama. Wait for the taxi, please.

I listened to the silence in fear. When I didn’t hear her answer, I bit into my lip and closed my eyes. Somehow I had to stop her from driving.

There’s the taxi, now.

Only when I heard someone in the background asking about a Yellow Cab did I feel my tension easing.

I’m coming home, Mama. There was a click, and the phone went silent.

Moving from the bed, tears forming in my eyes, I walked out into the hall and went to stand in my sixteen-year-old daughter’s room. The dark silence hung thick. My husband came from behind, wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on the top of my head.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks. We have to learn to listen, I said to him.

He pulled me around to face him. We’ll learn. You’ll see. Then he took me into his arms, and I buried my head in his shoulder.

I let him hold me for several moments, then I pulled back and stared back at the bed. He studied me for a second, then asked, Do you think she’ll ever know she dialed the wrong number?

I looked at our sleeping daughter, then back at him. Maybe it wasn’t such a wrong number.

Mom, Dad, what are you doing? The muffled young voice came from under the covers.

I walked over to my daughter, who now sat up staring into the darkness. We’re practicing, I answered.

Practicing what? she mumbled and laid back on the mattress, her eyes already closed in slumber.

Listening, I whispered and brushed a hand over her cheek.

Christie Craig

A Mother’s Love

Iam convinced that the greatest legacy we can leave our children is happy memories.

Og Mandino

When I think of Clara Harden’s family, happiness is what comes to mind. The sounds of laughter always greeted my visits.

Their lifestyle was so very different from mine. Clara’s mother believed nurturing the mind was more important than trivial chores. Housekeeping wasn’t a high priority. With five children ranging in age from Clara, the oldest at twelve, to a two-year-old baby, this lack of order sometimes bothered me but never for long. Their home was always in some state of chaos with at least one person’s life in crisis, real or imagined. But I loved being part of this boisterous bunch, with their carefree, upbeat attitude toward life. Clara’s mother was never too busy for us. She’d stop ironing to help with a cheerleading project, or switch off the vacuum cleaner and call us all to trek into the woods to gather specimens for a child’s science project.

You never knew what you might do when you visited there. Their lives were filled with fun and love—lots of love.

So the day the Harden children stepped off the school bus with red, swollen eyes, I knew something was desperately wrong. I rushed to Clara, pulled her aside, begging to hear what had happened but not prepared for her answer. The night before, Clara’s mother had told them she had a terminal brain tumor, with only months to live. I remember that morning so well. Clara and I went behind the school building where we sobbed, holding each other, not knowing how to stop the unbelievable pain. We stayed there, sharing our grief until the bell rang for first period.

Several days passed before I visited the Harden home again. Dreading the sorrow and gloom, and filled with enormous guilt that my life was the same, I stalled until my mother convinced me that I couldn’t neglect my friend and her family in their time of sadness.

So I visited. When I entered the Harden house, to my surprise and delight, I heard lively music and voices raised in animated discussion with lots of giggles and groans. Mrs. Harden sat on the sofa playing a game of Monopoly with her children gathered round. Everybody greeted me with smiles as I struggled to hide my bewilderment. This wasn’t what I had expected.

Finally Clara freed herself from the game, and we went off to her room where she explained. Her mother had told them that the greatest gift they could give her would be to carry on as if nothing was amiss. She wanted her last memories to be happy, so they had agreed to try their hardest.

One day Clara’s mother invited me for a special occasion. I rushed over to find her wearing a large gold turban. She explained that she’d decided to wear this instead of a wig now that her hair was falling out. She placed beads, glue, colored markers, scissors and cloth on the table, and instructed us to decorate it, while she sat like a regal maharaja. We turned the plain turban into a thing of gaudy beauty, each adding his or her own touch. Even as we squabbled over where the next bauble should be placed, I was conscious of how pale and fragile Mrs. Harden appeared. Afterwards, we had our picture taken with Clara’s mother, each pointing proudly to her contribution to the turban. A fun memory to cherish, even though the unspoken fear of her leaving us wasn’t far beneath the surface.

Finally the sad day arrived when Clara’s mother died. In the weeks that followed, the Hardens’ sorrow and pain were impossible to describe.

Then one day I arrived at school to see an animated Clara laughing, gesturing excitedly to her classmates. I heard her mother’s name mentioned frequently. The old Clara was back. When I reached her side, she explained her happiness. That morning dressing her little sister for school, she’d found a funny note her mother had hidden in the child’s socks. It was like having her mother back again.

That afternoon the Harden family tore their house apart hunting messages. Each new message was shared, but some went undetected. At Christmastime, when they retrieved the decorations from the attic, they found a wonderful Christmas message.

In the years that followed, messages continued sporadically. One even arrived on Clara’s graduation day and another on her wedding day. Her mother had entrusted the letters to friends who delivered them on each special day. Even the day Clara’s first child was born, a card and poignant message arrived. Each child received these short funny notes, or letters filled with love until the last reached adulthood.

Mr. Harden remarried, and on his wedding day a friend presented him with a letter from his wife to be read to his children, in which she wished him happiness and instructed her children to envelop their new stepmother in love, because she had great faith that their father would never choose a woman who wouldn’t be kind and loving to her precious children.

I’ve often thought of the pain Clara’s mother must have experienced as she wrote these letters to her children. I also imagined the mischievous joy she felt when she hid these little notes. But through it all I’ve marveled at the wonderful memories she left those children, despite the pain she quietly suffered and the anguish she must have felt leaving her adored family. Those unselfish acts exemplify the greatest mother’s love I’ve ever known.

Pat Laye

The Green Pajamas

I often watched from inside the house as my mother lugged a bucket of coal up the back steps. There were seventeen steps, and she usually brought up three loads of coal. She’d smile at me when she passed the window. Many times I’d shout through the glass, Let me help!

Her answer remained the same. No. You stay inside where it’s warm, Mannie. This only takes a minute. Besides, there’s only one bucket. I must have been about nine years old.

You shouldn’t have to do this, Mama. You’ve already worked all day in an office. I know you are tired.

Sometimes I wouldn’t watch out the window. I’d busy myself in some other part of the house until I knew the coal for the next day had been brought up. Often I’d think about my friends who had fathers who could bring coal in. My own father had died before I was two.

Yet, even though my mother had to go to work each day and I missed not having a father, our life together in our small house included a lot of happiness.

As I grew older, I’d bring up the coal some days before my mother got home from work. It was terribly heavy, and I could never seem to get an adequate supply. I longed to find some way to make things better for her.

Unexpectedly, when I was about thirteen, I got a temporary job wrapping Christmas gifts at a local department store on the weekends. Although I was young and inexperienced, I worked quickly and earned twenty-three cents an hour. I was to get paid just before Christmas.

I wanted to get my mother something special that year—something to make life easier for her. After work one evening, I went window-shopping. I saw what my mother must have. A dark-haired mannequin modeled it. She had a radiant smile, and there were no tired lines on her face. She appeared pampered and relaxed in the moss-green satin lounging pajamas and short matching robe. She was about the size of my mother, I thought. I strained to see the price tag, turning my head almost upside down.

Twenty-five dollars and ninety-five cents. It was a fortune in 1950!

I had no idea if I would earn that much money. And even if I did, someone else might buy the beautiful set before I did. Dear God, I prayed, looking intently at the pajamas, hold them for me. Don’t let anyone buy them, and let me make $25.95 at least.

Many evenings after work I stood in front of the shop window looking at the pajamas, smiling with deep satisfaction, relieved that they were still there.

Two nights before Christmas, I got paid. I poured the money out of my pay envelope and counted it. Twenty-seven dollars and thirteen cents! I had more than enough. I ran to the store with the money in my pocket. I entered out of breath and said to the saleslady, I want to buy the beautiful pajamas set in the window. It’s $25.95.

The saleswoman knew my mother and me. She smiled warmly, but suggested, Marion, don’t you think your mother would rather have something more . . . practical?

I shook my head. I didn’t even understand her subtle and kindly meant suggestion. Nothing on earth could have changed my mind. Those pajamas were for my mother. God had kept everyone from buying them, and I had the money to pay for them. I watched almost breathlessly as the woman took the pajamas and robe out of the window. While she got a box, I reached out and touched the soft satin. It was an exquisite moment. She wrapped the gift in soft tissue paper first, then in Christmas paper.

Finally, with the large package under my arm, I headed home. I put my mother’s gift under the tree wondering how I’d wait until Christmas morning.

When it dawned, I couldn’t open any of my gifts until my mother opened hers. I watched with a pounding heart.